The sunset-red boy

The sunset-red boy in his little canoe



can only cast his line out so far



 



as his father stands grimacing



on an opposite island: an aging man 



 



in Crete who spat at me once, 



then peered into his little salty pool



 



with contempt that I turned my head away from—



if only to find the next blind peasant



 



lonely with his stories of St. Anthony



 



(he overheard them from the nuns



who passed through the island like clouds last July) 



 



and his open palms, expecting me 



 



to hand him the visible sun 



like a hot coin from his youth



 



spent wandering into and out of cathedrals



and brothels, not understanding 



 



the tombs he was kissing



or the marble faces



 



that watched him pleasantly 



in his boyhood sleep,



 



humming quietly to themselves 



about the price of light in the current market,



 



where the man who sells grapes 



charges one-euro-eighty for every basket



 



and leaves their seeds to float in the sea



like miniature boats towards Alexandria.